Comic Life
by DamaDeHonor
Summary: Dean took an art class in high school, but Sam just thought it was so he could goof off. He's about to find out otherwise.
1. Use it or Lose it

**Note:** I feel kinda ambivalent about posting this story now that I've caught up with this season of SN. :/ I still like it though, and I hope you guys find some enjoyment too. :D

**Spoilers/Season:** I _think_ this only goes up to Season 2, somewhere. Most likely up to AHBL Part 2.

- - -

**"Comic Life"  
**

**Part 1: "Use It or Lose It"**

"Sucks... sucks... double sucks..." Dean mumbled to himself, as he sat on a bench in front of the local library, looking through the sketches he'd made in the last hour in the brand new drawing pad he held on his lap.

Earlier that day, Sam had mentioned they were running low on cash. Now, they could run more credit card scams, but it actually _did_ take awhile for the things to come in the mail. And they would probably starve in the meantime, not that Dean couldn't spare a few pounds.

Back in the day, he'd taken a few art classes. Sam thought it was because he got to screw around for the whole period, and that was what Dean let him believe. The truth was, he'd really liked it. He'd drawn some really neat stuff, but unfortunately, he'd lost his homemade portfolio in one of their many moves.

His dad had known about his skills, even though Dean had hidden them, like a dragon hides its treasures, from Sammy. But John had known the truth because he'd seen Dean's report card, and gone to one of the student-parent nights and seen Dean's work. He'd left most of his stuff at school, only daring to bring home the shabby sketch pad. Of course, he'd hidden it well during the times he wasn't actually drawing in it.

Sam would have so teased him relentlessly for his interest in art. Not something he'd ever want his little bro to be able to hold over his head.

But when his dad realized how good he was at drawing, he asked Dean for a favor. They'd needed extra cash then, too, and John had thought it was worth a shot to sell some of Dean's art. Dean had come up with a short comic, and they'd turned it in to a newspaper under another name.

They'd gotten paid, and Dean had drawn a few follow-ups before they'd had to leave town again. It'd given them enough money for the trip, at least. And Dean could still feel the pride of having seen his work in a newspaper, albeit over his art teacher's shoulder. He'd actually _liked_ Dean's comic.

_'Now if I can just make another one that's not complete crap.'_ Dean glared at the rebellious sketches on the white page. _'Then I can get it put in this town's funny-papers, and get me and Sammy a little bonus.'_ A grin tugged at his lips, but was quickly suppressed by reality.

The problem was, it seemed he'd lost some of his imagination somewhere along the way. Probably in a pile with all the rest of the brain matter he'd lost from being thrown around so much by evil scum wads.

"Wow, that's cool," a Hispanic kid of indeterminate age said, coming to hover in front of Dean and the marble bench he slouched on. "Can you draw Superman?" the brat wondered, and Dean pursed his lips.

"Sure I can," he said, after a moment. But the truth was, he couldn't just pull crap from his head like that. He had to have some reference. But that didn't stop him from turning to a blank page and starting to sketch.

Strangely, the first thing that popped into his mind was an image of his father in full hunting mode. But because that hurt too much to think about, drawing Dad, he pictured Sammy next. His lips curled up with mischief, and he started sketching.

The kid came to sit next to him, scooting into his personal space to look over Dean's shoulder as he drew. Dean ignored him and continued to draw Sam as he would be if he were Superboy. He couldn't help the intermittent chuckles that escaped as the picture began to develop.

It was Sam, with the shaggy hair and puppy-dog face, but he had on a cape over his usual clothes, and his body was unusually proportioned, narrowing down as it got to his feet. His hands were on his hips, chest all puffed out and displaying the Superman emblem on his t-shirt. The kid complained, "That's not Superman!"

Dean straightened his smirk. "Okay, you want Superman?" he asked, pretending to be serious about it this time. He totally wasn't. The kid nodded, giving Dean a skeptical glare.

Dean turned another page and started sketching again. This time he started with Sam holding a shotgun, then drew in a ghost for good measure. Only this spook looked liked a cross between Casper and a zombie.

He squinted his eyes and licked his lips, then drew in the rock salt exploding from the barrel of the shotgun. The kid surprised him by saying, "Whoa." When Dean glanced over and down, he saw the boy's dark eyes were as wide as saucers.

"Cool, huh?" Dean replied, feigning cockiness. Actually, he was pretty amazed the kid thought it was awesome. Probably wouldn't think it was so awesome if he saw a _real_ ghost, though.

"Yeah," the kid exclaimed. "Draw something else! I mean, what happens next?" He demanded, excitedly, breaking boundaries again by shaking Dean's arm.

"Sheesh, go bother someone else," Dean grumbled, "I'm trying to make a short, not a whole comic."

"You _should_ make a comic!" the boy told him, looking at Dean as if he were crazy, or at the very least, squandering his talent. Dean sighed, looking away.

"I don't have time, _hombre_," he said, "I need something short and sweet."

"I know!" the kid said, hopping off of the bench in his excitement. He waved his small hands around. "You can shrink that guy, make him look goofy, and then have him chase ghosts."

Dean cringed. "That's, um... th-that's..." He made a face. He wasn't sure the kid got the point. "Where are your parents, anyway?"

"Mom's inside. Well, are you gonna draw it?" The kid crossed his arms over his chest.

Dean tried not to insult him by chuckling at his gesture. "All right. Let's see..." he murmured, turning the page again and staring at the whiteness for awhile.

When he started to sketch again, he was thinking of the many times he and Sam had been thrown into walls. If you translated that to a cartoon, he was sure it would be a _little_ funny. Especially considering how experienced they were supposed to be by now. And still getting kicked around like they were rookies?

He couldn't help the wry, tight smile that found its way to his lips. '_Agh, a ghost!'_ he drew a cute chick screaming. Scary-ghost loomed over her, as she cowered on the floor of some nondescript room. Enter absurdly skinny and tall Sam, and short and slightly squat Dean, both toting simplified shotguns. '_Don't worry, _I'll_ save you,_' said his Dean, and he was really poking fun at himself now. He _knew_ he had an ego, but comics had a to be super-exaggerated to get the point across.

Comic-Sam gave him a dirty look, but turned his attentions to the girl. '_Are you alright? It's okay to cry, I'll hold you.'_ The girl looked at him as if he were crazy. Comic-Dean fired at the ghost, but the ghost gave a wicked laugh, '_Muhahahahah!'_ and waved its blobby hand.

Comic-Dean hit the wall, and Comic-Sam, incidentally, who was knocked over like a bowling pin. Comic-cute-chick grabbed the shotgun and saved the day.

Then Comic-Dean and Comic-Sam shoved each other and Comic-Sam said, '_Jerk!'_ Comic-Dean retorted, '_Sissy!_'

"I think it's too long," his little friend commented. Dean scowled at him.

"What d'_you_ know?" he grumbled.

The kid gave him a look and held out his hand. "Here, let me see." Dean resisted the urge to scuff the kid and handed over the sketch book. The kid held out his hand for the pencil too, and Dean glared at him, which only made the child emphasize the gesture by jerking his hand a little.

Dean rolled his eyes and handed over the pencil. He expected the kid to deface his work, but after some lengthy scribbling, he handed the pencil and book back to Dean with a definitive, "There." He gave Dean a satisfied smile, and Dean looked it over.

All he'd done was to redraw the comic at the bottom of the page combining several of the panels so that it was much shorter. He had a pretty good eye, Dean noticed, as he blinked and nodded, slowly. Then he gave the kid an appreciative look. He ruffled his hair. "Pretty smart. Maybe you should draw one of these yourself."

The kid smiled hugely. "Really?"

"Sure," Dean answered, giving the brat a sincere smile for once. "Why not?"

"Julio!" a woman scolded, and Dean glanced back towards the sliding doors of the library, sharply. A Hispanic babe stood just behind the bench, looking steamed. Her eyes were on Julio though, and Dean relaxed a little bit.

"What are you doing, _mijo_?" she demanded. "I hope you're not bothering this man."

Julio shuffled his sneakers nervously. "_No, ama_." He ducked his head, and Dean stood up and put on his best smile.

"He wasn't bothering me, really," he said. "Helping me with my comic, actually. I think maybe Julio's going to make a great comic-book artist some day."

The mother blinked, glanced at her nervous son, then back to Dean. She offered him a shy smile, and it practically made her face glow. '_Whoa, Dean_,' he told himself, '_No getting involved with this one.'_

"Thank you, mister," she said, "Come on, Julio," she called then, holding out her hand for her son. Dean watched the kid run to her, and then turn back at the last minute and say, "I'm gonna watch for your comic in the newspaper, okay?"

Dean nodded once--smiled. "Okay." He waved, and Julio waved back, took his mother's hand and turned away. The woman offered Dean one last smile before also turning, and he grinned. It brought a bemused look to her face, and she finished the turn and they were off.

Dean watched until they got in their car and drove away. He shook his head at himself and headed for the Impala. He tried to banish his odd mood with the thought, '_Now to get this baby in print.'_

_- - -_

_Ama_ basically means "mom", but I looked it up, and it could mean "landlady or madame" too. I don't know. I always thought it meant "mom," but maybe it's more along the lines of "old lady." Heh. If anyone knows, feel free to tell me. :D


	2. Little, Humongous White Lie

**Part 2: "Little, Humongous White Lie"**

"Dean," Sam said, as they were walking towards the same old coffee shop they'd been visiting for a week now. "What's this?" He held out the newspaper, he'd been reading, toward Dean.

It was all folded up so that he could read it while walking--what a dork. Dean looked down, squinted. It was the funny pages. He frowned, glancing over the page, trying to decide what Sam was referring to, as his heart jumped into his throat.

Sure enough, at the bottom of the rows of comics, was his debut. Well, "Julio Johnson's" debut. Dean tried not to hold his breath and pretended to look at the comic as if it was new. "Hah," he said, handing it back to Sam. "The tall one looks kinda like you. Weird."

_'Oh, way to go, great job on playing dumb,'_ Dean thought with a sarcastic, mental cringe.

"Don't you think that looks an awful lot like the _both_ of us?" Sam demanded. They'd reached the shop, and his brother hovered near an empty table.

Dean glanced around at the other customers, nervously. He made a point of sitting down, trying to give Sam a hint. Sam glared at him but sat down too. "Who would know about us?" he asked in a stage-whisper.

Dean shrugged. "It doesn't mean they know about _us_. Could just be a couple hunters...." He trailed off, knowing his explanation wasn't flying with Sam.

"Dean," Sam said, pointedly, poking the comic as he held it out to Dean. "Your charm."

Sure enough, Dean had drawn his own amulet on his double in every panel. Crap. He was so busted. "Okay, so we have a stalker," he tried again, but he could feel his ears heating up. _'Oh, great. Stupid conscience chooses _now_ to make an appearance!'_

"Do we know any 'Julio'?" Sam questioned, and Dean nearly let out a gusty sigh.

Instead, he managed to clear his throat and act sincere. "Uh, not th-that I know of." He'd thought it was clever, but he'd had a little trouble convincing the newspaper editor of it.

"Dean," Sam said, blue eyes narrowed. "You're stuttering. What are you nervous about?" Sam's mouth dropped open, and Dean tried not to squirm in his chair. "You're _lying_, aren't you?" Sam guessed.

Dean opened his mouth to lie again, when the waitress came and asked them what they would like to order. Sam and Dean rattled off the usual, and the waitress gave them a knowing smile and jotted something down before promising to return quickly.

"Who is 'Julio'?" Sam questioned, and Dean could have sagged from relief. Sam had misinterpreted his lie.

"Um," Dean began. _'Not a good start, dude. Keep it together.'_ He shrugged again, drawing from deep stores of nonchalance. "A guy Dad used to know. He wasn't a bad guy, but I can sort of see him doing something like this." Oh, that was a little close to home.

"Then why didn't you just say that in the first place?" Sam complained, in that pitchy tone that tended to get on Dean's nerves.

"Well, 'cause Julio's a little _loco_ and dangerous," he lied again. It was true what they said about lies, they just kept getting bigger and bigger.

Sam frowned contemplatively, or maybe it was suspiciously. Dean wasn't sure. "That doesn't sound right, Dean. A crazy hunter, who's also sensitive enough to draw a cartoon? What, is this some sort of weird bating?"

_'Sensitive?'_ Dean wondered, suddenly annoyed. "A guy doesn't have to be sensitive to draw a friggin' cartoon," he groused.

Sam's already narrow eyes got smaller. "Are you defending this man? What if he decides to give away more than our personalities--like in California, with the ghost-binding spell?"

"Ah, come on, Sammy," Dean returned, trying to make that sound implausible, "He may be crazy, but I doubt he'd take things that far."

"You seem to know this guy pretty well," Sammy said, sitting back in his chair as if he were onto Dean. "But you made it seem like he was a passing acquaintance."

"Er," Dean said, oh, so eloquently. _'Darn. If I flub up any more, Sammy's going to figure it out, for sure.'_ "I meant, just from the times I met him--he was pretty looney," he shrugged, "But he didn't seem like the kinda guy who'd betray other hunters."

Sam's fingers tapped the paper he'd laid on the table in front of him. His eyes were going all squinty again. Dean tried not to fidget. "So you're saying he's just doing this for the extra cash?"

He shrugged, feeling his face go cold from Sam's dead-on evaluation. "Yeah, probably. I'm sure he won't do anything to jeopardize other hunters."

Sam nodded, slowly, then began tearing out the little comic from that page of the paper. "What are you doing?" Dean questioned, a bit too sharply.

Sam looked up, giving him an aggravated glare. "I'm saving it, just in case."

He relaxed a little, but tried not to let Sam know it was such a big deal by joking, "You sure you don't just want to hang onto your immortalization?"

Sam glared at him. "At least I'm not short and fat."

Dean pretended to sulk.

- - -

A week later, they were in much the same situation: Running out of cash, and no credit cards yet. Dean snuck off to go draw another "Sammy and Deano" cartoon, choosing a more private spot than the library this time.

They'd just gotten through sending a ghost to the afterlife, and the house they'd banished it from was abandoned in all senses of the word, now. He'd have a table, or couch, to sit at or on, and no pesky kids interrupting his thought-process.

Strange thing was, though, when he started sketching, he couldn't seem to get the brat, who had helped him draw his last comic, out of his head. Him and his cute mom both....

So instead of drawing what he'd thought he was going to, he found himself sketching a character: Julio with a no-nonsense expression, and hands crossed over his thin chest. Dean found the smile on his face rather bitter tasting.

But he couldn't help it when he went on to draw the hot-comic-mom beside Julio's rendering. Dean stared at her for too long, realized he was _that_ close to drooling, and flipped a couple pages over in frustration.

But when he started drawing again, he found the panels developing into an ironic story:

Sammy was in the background, fluffy hair barely visible behind a tower of books, and his overly long and stick-like legs of course. He was behind the clear doors of the library, and Deano was out in front flirting with Julio's mom.

_'So what do you do for a living?'_ she wonders, smiling coyly as her son stares Deano down, arms crossed over his chest.

_'Oh, me and my brother hunt ghosts,'_ Deano replies, like it's nothing.

Dean glared at the page, but when he started drawing again, it was like his hand was possessed. The next panel was much the same, except that the mom had gone all huge-eyed and repulsed, while Julio asks eagerly, '_Really? You hunt ghosts?!'_ And inside the library, Sammy is losing books from the top of his mountain.

Deano, annoyed by Julio's mom's reaction, snarks, '_Yeah, and without me around, they'd probably eat you.'_

Julio's mom slaps Deano, and drags Julio away, saying, '_Come on, _mijo_. Don't ever talk to strangers.'_

Julio grumbles, '_But _you_ were, Mom.'_

Sammy finally makes it out of the library, and Deano takes some of his books saying, '_Sheesh, Sammy, what would you do without me?'_

Sammy retorts, '_Oh, and where were _you_ just now?'_

Dean frowned, scratched out the last panel and left it with the mom and her son walking off, and Deano looking disappointed to the point of crocodile tears. Meanwhile, Sammy had managed to escape the library and told Deano, '_Dude! Stop flirting with the smart-chicks and help me with these.'_

Dean sighed and shut the sketch book. He would still have to work on it a bit more, redraw it to perfection then line it with pen. Erase the pencil marks, take it to the newspaper, deal with the editor thinking he didn't look like a "Julio."

He was mulling over that, when someone reached down and grabbed the sketch book right out of his hands. Startled, Dean looked up, calling out a discomfited, "Hey!" And froze.

It was Sam standing there, and Dean wished he'd never taught him how to sneak around so well. "What _is_ this?" Sam questioned, beginning to flip through the first pages. His eyebrows shot up, and Dean's mouth worked futilely for a few seconds before he leapt up from the couch and made a grab for his sketch book.

"Give that back!" he yelled, feeling like a little kid who was being teased by a bully.

Sam gave him a look of pure... what? Incredulity? Amazement? Disbelief? Maybe all those things, and a little annoyance thrown in for good measure, as he held the book out of Dean's reach and pulled away a bit, so that he could continue perusing its contents.

"Dean... did you _draw_ these?" Sam wondered, focus still on the sketch pad.

"Sam, I swear," Dean threatened, "If you don't give that back right now, I'm going to skewer you like a shishkebab and roast you over a camp fire."

Sam only blinked. "_Dean_, these are _yours_." He sounded astonished and accusing, at the same time. "You can _draw_."

"No freaking way, Sammy," Dean retorted, "Really? I had no idea. Let me take a look." He reached for the book again, and Sam gave him a perturbed look, pursing his lips, frowning, and held it away once more.

"And you draw _well_," he said, flipping another page. "Oh, there it is. Pretty good, I almost fell for the whole "crazy hunter" story earlier. Until you gave me that lame excuse before going out today."

What lame excuse? Dean wondered, irritably. _'Oh, yeah.'_ He'd told Sam he was going out for snacks. Of course, if he'd been gone for more than an hour... well, Sam would have been suspicious even if he _hadn't_ followed Dean.

And how the heck had he followed him anyway? "Did you steal a car, Sam?" he demanded.

Sam shrugged a little. "I borrowed one."

"In broad daylight?" Dean exploded.

Sam made a face. "Dean, I _really_ borrowed the car."

Dean let out a small sigh, then bristled at Sam's implication that he wasn't Dean and didn't think like him. "From who?" he asked, in frustration.

"The hotel manager. I told him I forgot to tell you something and needed to reach you before you got where you were going." Oh, _that_ explained why he'd actually had time to _really_ borrow the car.

Sam flipped another page and looked down at it, frowning. Dean shifted his weight, uncomfortably. Besides Sam looking at his work making him embarrassed as heck, comics were actually supposed to make people smile and laugh--not frown.

"It's not funny, is it?" he asked, feeling defeated all of a sudden.

Sam glanced up at him, shaking his head a little. His smile was rather wan. "No, it's funny. I'm just... Dean, I'm trying to wrap my mind _around_ all this. You can draw--you can write a pretty darned good set-up. And..." he glanced down at the page again. "You pretend to be a jerk, don't you?"

Dean was so taken-aback that he actually paled and went cold and light-headed. He sat down quickly, looking up at Sam in shock. "Th-That's... stupid," he said, weakly, and Sam chuckled.

"That's all you have to say? That it's stupid?" He plunked down beside Dean. Dean glanced over, seeing that he had the page turned to the latest strip he'd drawn.

"It's not stupid, and don't try to brush it off 'cause I've always known, anyway," Sam continued, matter-of-factly. "I know you're smart, Dean. I know you aren't a buffoon. Hey, I even know you're creative. How _else_ could you think up half the plans you do, work out things intuitively, figure out what the bad guy's gonna do next?"

Dean wanted to protest, but Sam shut him down by adding, "The thing I _don't_ know is why you keep trying to hide it from everyone else. Why you play it down so much. Do you think you're stupid, Dean? 'Cause I really don't understand your freakish humility."

Dean sat there petrified for awhile, then he frowned and reached over carefully and reclaimed his sketch book. He closed it up, securely, and held it on his lap like a fragile tome. "I dunno... I guess I just don't think about that stuff the way you do, Sammy."

"In what way _do_ you think about it?" Sam questioned, his voice more gentle than it had been so far.

Dean brushed his hand over the shiny cover of the sketch book. "Drawing is just... a skill. Something to use when we need a little extra cash. Dad asked me to draw a little comic strip back when I was taking those art classes in high school, and it brought in some money. He didn't gush about me being some great artist, and you shouldn't either."

Sam was silent for too long, and when Dean finally dared to look at him, he regretted it. His younger brother had that sullen, disgruntled look on his face, the one he'd always gotten whenever Dad was mentioned before they'd all met up again.

"Oh, come on, Sam," he snapped, "You can't be angry with him about _this_ too. He's dead now, and you've got to get over this anger, d'you hear?"

"Dean, I _can_ be angry, and I _will_ be angry!" Sam retorted, shooting to his feet. Dean couldn't just let Sam tower over him like that, so he left the sketch pad on the couch and stood up too. "What sort of life could you be living now if only Dad had let it go?"

Dean flinched, suddenly realizing what that strange feeling had been as he watched Julio and his mother walking away. Regret. Envy. Paths never to be walked down. Sam's question echoed in his head. _'What sort of life...?' _And when he realized he couldn't immediately come up with an answer, he clenched his jaw and started to walk away.

"Dean!" Sam was already moving to catch him, but Dean sped up his pace, practically running. He felt like a coward, but it was either that or punch his brother. And he felt like he'd been retaliating too much lately, already.

"Dean, wait!" Sam sounded a little out of breath, maybe even panicked, but Dean ignored him as he rushed down the hallway that led into the foyer and out the front door. He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him, and didn't stop even when he heard Sam's muffled swearing from the other side.


	3. Paper Heroes

**Note:** Okay, I was wrong, at the end of this chapter, you'll realize it's before AHBL, sometime after "In My Time of Dying." And I wonder, if Sam and Dean had really had the conversation at the end of this, if Dean still would have done what he did. Thoughts? Forgive my ambiguity, I don't want to give away spoilers. heheh.

- - -

**Part 3: "Paper Heroes"  
**

Sam swore, when Dean slammed the door practically in his face, and then turned, paced back down the hall a little, turned again, cussed again, viciously, then after placing his hands on his hips and staring at the ceiling in frustration, pulled back and slammed his fist into the wall.

A second later, he regretted it, wondering if he'd managed to break his knuckles. _'You'd think I'd have learned to stop pushing by now,'_ he thought wryly, as he sucked in a breath and held his injured hand to his chest. _'But I haven't, apparently, and now I've gone and pushed him right out the door.'_

The more ironic thing struck him then. That it was exactly what his father had done to him, and he'd just turned around and proved himself John Winchester's son, through and through. What was it, their motto or something? "Push until something breaks"?

Sighing, he wandered back into the living room where Dean had left his-- And that was weird to think, but it _was_ Dean's sketch book. Dean's sketchbook. It was almost an oxymoron.

He picked it up and sat down, opening it up again. He'd flipped over the sketches before, but he hadn't really been paying so much attention to the subject as he had the skill. Himself, looking like Superman... He blinked. Stared.

Even caricatured as it was-- Sam swallowed and turned the page. Himself, a bit less stylized, shooting a shotgun-full of rock salt into a roughed-up looking ghost. Seriously, Dean needed to see a psychiatrist.

But the idea behind it threw him completely. Dean thought of him like _that_? Really? Unbelievable. Literally, not figuratively. Sam just couldn't believe it. Dean couldn't possibly think of him that way because that would make _him_ Dean's hero. And that just didn't make any sort of sense whatsoever.

If anything, Dean was _his_ hero, not the other way around. Therefore, Dean shouldn't even be _allowed_ to think of him in that way. And what sort of burden was that to place on your little brother anyway. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less it made sense. It was actually more the way Sam had always believed Dean thought of their fathe--

And then he got it, and he snarled and tore the page out of the book, fully intending to tear it to shreds.

Dean didn't think of _him_ that way. Of _course_ he didn't. He'd thought of their father that way, but now John was dead, and Dean couldn't bring himself to draw Dad. So he'd gone and replaced Dad with Sam, and that was just messed up in major freakin' ways.

Before the impulse took over, though, it occurred to him how _Dean_ might feel about his work being destroyed. Sam took a deep, frustrated breath and tucked the paper back in between the pages before and after it.

He turned a page... saw a boy and his mom, a picture that screamed "happy! normal!" and because of it, "wistful, longing" too, whispered beneath the fun, thick lines and lively expressions.

They were drawn like comics, but suddenly Sam realized these were renderings of real people. Dean had met these two once. Who knows when because Dean was Dean after all, and Sam wasn't ever sure what he really knew and didn't know about his brother.

_'Julio Johnson,'_ he thought, contemplatively, remembering the pseudonym Dean had used for the comic he put in the paper, _'Julio, could be this kid. Johnson... John... John's son. Julio, John's son.'_

He snapped the book shut, sat there staring off into space, and when he couldn't stand it anymore, he got up and walked out of there. He needed to give back the car, anyway. Hopefully, Dean would be back at the motel, and he would just go from there. Because it was becoming pretty obvious that Dean had some major issues, and they were starting to come out in the strangest ways.

- - -

Dean didn't go back to the motel because he knew Sam would only find him there, if he did. And then Sammy would want to talk, and Dean wasn't sure if he could stop himself from talking this time around.

So he endeavored to get himself well, good and plastered in the middle of the day. So by the time he hobbled out of the bar, where he'd chosen to accomplish this "amazing feat", he could barely say his name right, let alone drive the Impala.

He double-checked to make sure it was locked, then stumbled out of the parking lot and down the street. He was _so_ going to get hit by a car, he decided, but somehow he made it back to the motel safely.

To congratulate himself on his fine skills of "alertitude," he started singing as he fumbled for the doorknob to the bathroom. He'd needed to take a leak since he left the stupid bar. Go figure he hadn't noticed when he was still there, and he wasn't about to go in an alley. With his luck, he'd probably get arrested for indecent exposure.

About that time, he started feeling a little woozy, and leaned over, hands on his knees to catch his breath. And **WHAM!** Suddenly, he was on the floor, seeing a universe of little stars and Sammy-Superboys dancing in front of his vision. When they cleared, he found himself looking dazedly up at his very tall sibling.

"Oh, crap!" Sam said, "Dean, I'm sorry! Are you all right?"

"A'right?" Dean questioned, hazily. Vaguely, he felt as if something might have hit his head. So he offered, uncertainly, "Did'you hit me?"

"Sort of," Sam answered, sounding distracted, as he reached down to help Dean up. Dean took his hand and found himself dizzily pulled to his feet. "I heard you singing and opened the door. It hit you in the head."

"Oh," Dean said, leaning heavily against his little brother, who wasn't actually so little, if you thought about it, which Dean was certainly doing, at that particular moment. "How'd'you get so tall, Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes and hauled Dean over to the bed and practically tossed him onto it. Or maybe it just felt that way because he was friggin smashed to the gills, whatever the heck gills were... did people have gills, or was that just fish? Well, whatever. Maybe fishermen used to get drunk, and that's where the expression came from... or maybe it was the fish that had gotten drunk, and the fishermen just stole the expression from them.

"Hey, Dean!" Sam called, snapping his fingers in front of Dean's face and pulling him back into a sitting position. "Are you with me, man?"

"I was thinkin'," Dean grumbled, while trying to focus on one of the Sammy's in front of him.

"Uh, huh," Sam said, skeptically, "How much did you drink, anyway?"

"I forget now," Dean replied, deciding that the left Sam was by far the more handsome one.

"Yeah, that's never good. When you regain consciousness, we need to have a talk." Ooh, an ultimatum... scary.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean retorted, flopped back down on the bed, gills and all, and promptly passed out.

- - -

When he woke up again, Sam was sitting at the motel room's desk, back to Dean, researching something on his laptop. Dean groaned when he became conscious enough to realize his head freaking hurt.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean, frowning immediately as if that were his all-purpose greeting-expression for his older brother. It usually was. Holding a hand to his pounding, aching skull, Dean told Sam in a rough voice, "Stop looking at me so loud."

Sam pursed his lips. "When you get through throwing up whatever it was you imbibed this afternoon, we need to have that talk."

_'Talk? What talk?'_ Dean wondered, then grumbled aloud, "I didn't say I would talk to you."

"Yes," Sam said, definitively, "You did." His tone made Dean's stomach turn over, and a moment later, he was dashing for the bathroom and up-chucking into the friendly, yet blinding-white toilet.

Moaning, he closed his eyes against the shinyness, and lowered his forehead to his arm, just huddling there beside the cool surface of the porcelain. It occurred to him then that maybe Sam was bluffing. But he couldn't really remember, so he couldn't prove it, and besides, his brain was too shot at the moment to try and argue the finer points.

"Hey," Sam said from above him, and Dean squinted upward, seeing his younger brother leaning against the bathroom's doorjamb.

In the florescent light of the bathroom, Sam's head looked like it had a halo around it. The light was catching those blond highlights in his girly hair. And blurry as Dean's vision was at the moment, it gave Sam's hair a golden sort of glow. "Man, turn down your hair, will ya?"

Sam blinked. "Dean, you can't possibly still be drunk, can you?"

"I'm not drunk, I'm too hungover to be drunk," Dean refuted, another groan followed, and he was soon vomiting into the toilet bowl again.

He heard water running and a moment later, something wet and cool was pressed into his hand. Dean looked down, seeing a brilliant, bleached washcloth in his hand. He shut his eyes against the nausea, and wiped his face down then draped the cloth over the back of his neck and left it there.

"I looked at your sketchbook again, Dean," Sam said, in a tone of voice that said, _'I found out your secret.'_ And Dean wondered what secret it was that Sam thought he knew.

"Yeah, and?" he retorted.

"And I know that you wanted to draw Dad, but instead you drew me."

_'What the heck?'_ Dean looked up, scowling, and questioned, "What is that supposed to mean?" He was practically yelling, and winced a moment later at the repercussion he'd caused to his own throbbing brain.

"It _means_," Sam said, "That I know you couldn't draw him because it hurts you too much. And I know why you picked 'Julio Johnson' as your pen name."

_'Oh, crap,'_ he thought, but he kept up his front, using anger and intimidation as an all too handy shield. "And why is that?" His voice was as flat and cold as the toilet lid.

Sam didn't back down, ignoring the huge warning signal. "Because you saw yourself in that kid, and what you saw was this, and it's always going to be this, Dean: John's son. You're his son, and that's how you defined yourself, and now that he's gone, all you've got left is me. But I'm not a very good replacement, am I? I'm not half the hero that Dad was."

Dean swallowed, stood up as quickly as his aching head and roiling belly would allow, the washcloth dropping down to the tiles with a dull splat. He clenched his hand in Sam's shirt, and got so close Sam wrinkled his nose from the smell of his breath.

"You listen close," he hissed, "'Cause I'm only gonna tell you this once. Dad is gone. I'm Dean. You're Sam. And my job is to protect you. _That's_ what I define myself by. And if I ever fail, it doesn't even bear thinking about."

Sam paled, and Dean realized he'd taken a misstep somewhere in there. His anger had caused the truth to inadvertently burst out of him, and now he was going to have a freaking hard time taking it back.

"Dean..." Sam said, all soft-spoken and wide-eyed. "You're so much _more_ than that. How--? How can you just say that you'd toss it all away if I died?"

"Sammy," Dean pleaded, turning away, then putting the toilet seat down, and slumping down onto it, his head in his hands, elbows on thighs. "Don't go there, okay?"

"No, Dean. You started this, and now I want to hear what you have to say. You can't keep this locked away forever."

"I can try," Dean said, weakly. His eyes were closed, but he felt Sam crouch down beside him, then his hand was on Dean's shoulder.

He looked up, squinting. Sam's face was so pinched with worry, Dean thought it might actually get stuck like that, as the old saying went. "Talk to me, Dean. Why can't you just go on without me? Why does it have to be so black and white, for you? You could... you could make a comic, give up hunting. You could start a family, or something. It doesn't have to end with _me_."

Dean laughed harshly. "Do you really think a guy like me could have normal? And if normal's out of the question, then so is a family." He smiled a smile that didn't feel like one. "So ya see, Sammy, when you're gone, I'm just screwed."

Sam clenched his jaw stubbornly. "You're lying to yourself, Dean. I'm your brother, not your freakin' savior. You can still have a life without me. Just because you don't want one doesn't mean crap. If I had known this beforehand, I would've made you promise to stick around instead."

"Stop talking about this, Sammy, or I swear..." he said threateningly, but Sam just shook his head. "I mean it," he tried again, but it sounded more like pleading, this time.

"Dean, suicides are supposed to end up in Hell," he said, always the logical one, "What if that's true? Do you know how I would feel if I knew you were there? Do you?"

"No..." was all Dean could get out, and, God, did it sound pathetic.

Sam laughed humorlessly. "It would suck, dude. It would suck a friggin' lot."

Dean nodded a little, but couldn't speak for awhile. "So what am I supposed to do?" he finally got out.

Sam looked him in the eye. "Don't give up." He grinned. "It's not like you."

When Dean chuckled it was hysterical and a little bit sad. He licked his dry lips, stared down at his lap. "You suck, man. Go away and let me take a shower."

"Whatever," Sam retorted, after a moment of silence. "Just remember this conversation." And he left the bathroom and Dean, shutting the door behind him.

Dean chewed on his bottom lip, stared down at his hands. Maybe if Sam could believe there was something more... _afterward_... then he could too, no matter how painful the thought was of there ever coming such a time. Because the thing he wanted most, when this thing was all over and the Demon was gone, was that Sam would be left standing.

Even if it was only Sam, and no one standing beside him.


	4. Worth It

**Note: **This chapter was originally called, "P.S. Sorry about your sketch, Love Sammy." Because Sam actually _did_ tear up the pic, but I changed that. Now the title sucks, but the story is a little more in character. :P

- - -

**Part 4: "Worth It"  
**

Dean, hair still damp from his shower, was on the edge of his motel bed, flipping through his sketchbook in preparation of refining the latest comic he'd drawn. And he came across the sketch he'd drawn of Sammy as Superboy. It'd been torn out of the sketchpad, and a little angrily from the looks of the jagged line.

He blinked a couple time, and then he scowled and questioned, "Sam, what the heck did you rip out this page for?"

Sam turned away from his laptop, and rested his arm on the back of the desk chair to give himself a little more balance. "Oh, yeah," he said, sheepishly, "Sorry about that, man."

Dean stared at his brother, incredulously. "Did you want to keep it, or something? What the heck?"

Sam cleared his throat, looked like he was about to blush, and replied, "I was angry. I know you wanted to draw Dad. I almost tore it up..."

He sat there for a moment, and then shrugged and took the page and ripped it up neatly and quickly, crumpled the pages together and tossed it in the trash.

"Oh, my God, Dean!" Sam exclaimed, "Why'd you do that?" He got up, and went over to the trash and rescued the paper.

Dean shrugged, "It's not like it's worth anything."

"What?" Sam retorted, "You're not serious."

"Dude, get over it, it's just a piece of paper with graphite on it."

Sam stared at him momentarily. "It doesn't matter how much it's worth, man, it's your art. I mean-- You can't just-- Dean--" Dean smirked at his brother's sudden lack of eloquence.

"I know I suck, Sammy. You don't have to pretend." He ducked his head, closed his drawing pad, set it aside, then changed his mind, picked it up, rose, and headed to the trash can with it.

Sam intercepted him, grabbing the book away and exclaiming, "Whoa, what's up with you? You don't suck, Dean. You're far from sucking. In fact, if you practice a little more, I'm pretty sure your stuff _could_ be worth something in a few years. Stop underestimating yourself!"

"Give it back," Dean growled, on the defensive again. That darned sketchbook kept making him feel like a dweeby teenager with coke-bottle glasses, that were bandaged up with a spare bandaid... not that that described him as a teenager. He'd never been a dweeb, even if he'd always been an outsider. "I'm gonna throw it away."

"Dude!" Sam said, looking like he did when Dean was proposing a hair-brained plan. Well, Dean wasn't in the habit of admitting sometimes his plans could be foolhardy, but actually, he was rather aware of when they were. "You are _not_ throwing this away. Sheesh. Have a little confidence in your ability. I mean, the newspaper printed one of your comics already. I can't believe you'd think they'd do that if you weren't any good."

Dean pursed his lips like Sam had the habit of doing. "I want it back, right now, neanderthal, or I'm going to kill my future nieces and nephews before they even have a chance to swim upstream."

It was Sam's turn to purse his lips, but still he held the sketchbook up and away from Dean's grasp. "You'd kick me in the nuts just so you can throw your sketchbook away? Fine, I'll give it to you, and then I'll get it out later."

"You're not gonna get it out later," Dean declared, "Cause I'm gonna fricassee the sucker. Flambe a la Deano!"

"Uh, huh," Sam drawled. "All right," he said, and shrugged, handing the sketchbook back to Dean. "Go ahead."

Dean took the notebook and stared at it. Then he dropped it into the trashcan and got out his lighter. He lit the flame and leaned down... but found himself holding the thing until it got hot enough that he had to close it.

"You do it," he said to Sam, and turned away.

Sam scoffed. "No, Dean." He tapped Dean's shoulder, and when he turned around, he saw that Sam had retrieved the sketchbook from the trash.

"I swear, Sam, you are the most stubborn son of a--"

"You're welcome," Sam interrupted, then went back to sit in front of his laptop. "Now hurry up and get that comic done before we have to start singing for our food."

"Talent Agent," Dean insulted, but he sat back down on the bed.

"Art-lover," Sam tossed back to him, with a shady grin.

Chuckling under his breath, Dean opened his sketchbook and found the last page he'd drawn....

-end-


End file.
